The One
by Nickie S.C
Summary: The cure for his loneliness, the antidote for his poison, the mother's love he so desperately needed...Oliver Thredson had found it all in Lana Winters. Only she didn't know it yet. And he was counting down the minutes until she was let in on their secret.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oliver Thredson and Lana Winters may not have been my creation, but I'd like to fill in the holes left in their story with my own twisted imagination. Though it's very difficult for me to write the homophobic insinuations, it's only in the name of staying true to the character and mindset of the time. I hope you enjoy my take. Please, Read and Review. :-)**

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Behind a closed door at the end of a long and dimly-lit hallway, Oliver Thredson sat at his desk, cigarette in hand. His heart was racing in his chest, his smile refusing to fade. Finally, after all of his waiting, his plan was beginning to take shape. Alone in his office, he allowed himself to be filled with reckless abandon as so many feelings crashed together he could hardly tell them apart.

He affectionately ran the fingers of his free hand over the note Lana Winters had just given to him: _"I know you didn't mean for this to happen. You couldn't have. Whatever the fallout, we'll get through it, but you have to get me out of here. Help me. I love you." _

This small slip of paper was just the reassurance he'd needed. She already trusted him for no reason at all, for the simple fact that he was not "one of them". If only she knew just how unlike the rest of them he truly was…or just what they were soon going to mean to each other. He knew full well that her message would never get to Wendy, and that it wasn't Sister Jude keeping her from writing or calling.

He'd tried his best to mask the wheels turning in his head as those words spilled from Lana's mouth, his mind swimming with images of Wendy's slender body as he carried her dead weight out to his car. He'd done it for Lana, all for Lana; the token of his appreciation was waiting on ice for just the right moment to present it to her.

From the moment he'd seen her from the shadows, telling his story, he knew she was the one for whom he'd been searching. He didn't want her skin, didn't want vengeance; he just wanted her to be everything he'd been missing and needing for so long. As she'd succinctly phrased it, he'd simply been a precious baby crying for his Mommy…except he'd been crying for her long since he'd been a baby, pleading for her love for over thirty years. But now he'd found her. She would soothe his cries, wipe his tears, and everything else a good Mommy does for her little boy.

His sweet Lana… Finding out her last name and address had not been difficult. He'd driven to her house that very night, watching her and her friend through the window. It thrilled him to watch her move, study her body language even if from a distance. Every night that week, he'd come to visit her. Some nights he parked just outside her home, while others he parked across the street, but always after dark, hoping no one would notice the same car sitting there on a regular basis.

The last night Oliver had seen her, the interaction between the two women seemed odd, Lana kneeling at the other's side. At seeing the two of them nearly kiss, his heart lurched into his throat. Realizing the transgression, her "friend" had gotten up to close the blinds. But he'd seen all he needed to see, and he knew then that Lana needed his help as much as he needed hers.

He wondered just how to go about his mission, how to make her his own. Should he befriend her somehow, showing up at her door to gain her trust? Find a way to make her one of his patients? He was not sure about the means…only the outcome.

For the next several nights, he'd sat keeping vigil fruitlessly, anxiously, with no sign of Lana. He'd only seen the other woman looking rather distraught and a few visitors, the nun having been the most curious among them. Though he refused to believe Lana was beyond finding, the worry and frustration began to mount within him. And he resolved to do them both a favor, with one simple action.

On the night before Halloween, he'd gone prepared. He'd put off his night's work until the other woman's visitors had left, readying himself for the task ahead. The wait had felt endless, but as he saw the two women leaving at long last, his knew his time had come.

When the lights had turned out in the front of the house, his insides trembled with anticipation. With his medical bag in hand, he approached the door and skillfully unlocked it, letting himself in. He entered quietly, smelling the lingering scent of marijuana wafting through the air. He smiled upon hearing the sounds of the shower and Dusty Springfield emanating from the record player. The unexpected distractions gave him time to make sure his plan of attack was perfect.

He set his bag on the couch and shuffled off his overcoat before taking the time to admire the photographs scattered across the room. One in particular was calling to him: Lana with a little boy in her arms. A nephew, a friend's child? He had no way of knowing, but the shared happiness in both of their faces as they looked at each other - bright eyes beneath dark heads of hair and above beaming smiles - made his heart skip a beat. And it only enforced his desire to have her fulfill the role she'd been born to play.

Walking back to the couch, Oliver opened his bag with fervency. He tenderly removed the black nightie from within, caressing the silk before bringing the material to his nose to savor the faint scent of perfume. After slipping the negligee over his denim shirt, he put his coat on once more. Next he slid on the long-length gloves, feeling more empowered with each new addition to his uniform, the persona christened by the media as Bloody Face.

As he heard the shower turn off, his heart was practically leaping out of his chest. He knew this was the beginning of something beautiful with Lana, getting rid of this sinful temptation. He produced the finishing touch from his bag, the reason for his namesake: the mask he'd so lovingly created from those who failed to live up to their potential. As he pulled the mask over his face, the rush came over him.

The feel of skin on his skin, it was a high unlike any drug could induce. The lips upon his lips, the hair tousled with his hair, looking through someone else's eyes… Having no attachment to the flesh just below the surface, he decided instead to craft the mask so that only he would have the pleasure of touching the actual skin. The end result was the feeling of being forever locked in a kiss with those lips, and that had sent a shiver of lust down his spine. It was such an intimate experience, fully encapsulated by another person.

With the façade complete, Oliver stood just on the other side of the beads hanging in the doorway, lying in wait. His breathing echoed in his ears, reverberating off the skin that clung to him so protectively. Footsteps approached as he readied his weapon, his breathes coming faster and harder. He couldn't have asked for a better soundtrack, Dusty prophetically singing the words "you will be his" in those final moments. And then there she was right in front of him, begging for her life, mistakenly thinking anything she could say would change his mind.

With the precision of his medical training, it had only taken one swift stab to the heart to send her falling to the floor. He'd pulled the knife out and watched with pleasure as she bled, crimson oozing into the white carpet.

As the sounds of her last whimpers were fading, he walked back to that telling picture of Lana and the boy. The snapshot proved that their story had been written for so long. Removing it delicately from the frame, he tucked the photograph into his pocket and languished in exhilaration.

Crossing the room once again, he saw the bedroom in his peripheral vision. He noticed one of the dresser drawers had been left open; in his need for meticulousness, he was compelled to close it. Scanning the contents first, various undergarments and socks, he detected something protruding from underneath: a risqué photo of the woman who lay dying just yards away. He couldn't deny the salacious pose - barely covered by a sheet, lips slightly parted in the most provocative of ways - coincided with the lust he'd been feeling since he'd slipped on the mask. Another time, another situation…this woman could've been the object of his possession… Feeling it significant, he tucked this picture inside his pocket along with the other.

Oliver took a moment to reflect on what had taken place. It had been his first murder of the sort. He'd found it satisfying in a completely different way for a completely different purpose. He didn't want this victim to become his mother: he wanted to get this person out of the way so he could have his mother all to himself.

With his bag in hand, he'd returned to the now-dead body. He pulled out a garbage bag and spread it on the floor, moving her atop it. Then he took out the bottle of bleach and a brush, working to remove the evidence from the carpet. Once pleased with the result, he used his spray bottle of vinegar to neutralize the chemical's odor. By the time anyone found it necessary to come looking for the woman here, there would be no indication of what had taken place.

Unsure of what exactly he was going to do with this body as of yet, he removed his coat and roughly wrapped it around her body along with the trash bag. He would wash his coat along with her robe later, but for now, blood stains in his car just wouldn't do. Only then did he mournfully remove his mask, feeling the harsh absence of closeness as he prepared to leave.

Stepping out into the late October chill, he carried her with the whimsy of whisking his lover off for the evening, trying his best not to attract attention from any lookers-on. As soon as she was resting in the passenger seat, he briefly went back into the house to retrieve his bag, smiling a sinister smile as he came back out and closed the door behind him.

Arriving home, he'd decided to simply put her body in the freezer for the time being. He had no desire to use her skin; without the benefit of being alive when it was removed, it held no meaning. Warm, living skin… Even though it lost both qualities soon after, when it was against his face, the heat began to radiate, and he breathed life into it once more. No, her skin would not do…but perhaps her teeth could add the smile that the mask had been lacking.

The next morning, his first time walking the halls of Briarcliff, Oliver had been stunned to discover the barbaric means of punishment in the guise of rehabilitation. Witnessing the electroshock therapy had been especially unsettling…until he'd gotten a shock of his own when he realized who the recipient of the "treatment" was: Lana Winters.

He'd rushed to find her patient file before his meeting with Kit Walker, the man who would pay the price for his crimes. Reading the file, he learned the name of his latest victim was Wendy and that she was the one who'd banished Lana to this hell on earth. Despite Lana's perversion, she did not belong in such a place, and certainly not at the hand of the very person who'd been committing the acts with her.

But some good had come from Wendy's betrayal, proving that fate was indeed on his side. In lying his way into the asylum to "evaluate" the would-be killer, he had been given the perfect ruse to get to Lana. He would kill two birds with one stone, absolving himself while ingratiating himself to her.

Though he knew he'd have to wait for Lana to approach him, just being in such close proximity was enough to hold him over.

Yesterday morning he'd been given his two weeks' notice from Sister Jude, and he'd been frantically trying to figure out how to realistically get himself involved with Lana's case. And to further prove their connection, she'd known it was time to approach him.

Knowing full well he was going to turn Kit over to the police regardless of what happened in their remaining sessions, he could devote the rest of his time at Briarcliff to his true motivation for being there. He would concoct a ruse to free her, to get her out of this awful place and into her new life. The delay would be sweet agony, but it would make the gratification all the more amazing once it came to fruition.

Reaching into his breast pocket, Oliver removed the picture he'd been keeping close to his heart. He stared longingly at the portrait of his new mother and imagined he was the little boy being cradled in her arms. And very soon…this would become their reality.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: So sorry for the delay in posting a second chapter! Thank you **_**so much**_** for the kind reviews, and I hope you'll enjoy this next installment. Please stick with me; t**__**here's plenty more story to tell...;)**_

The storm continued to rage outside, echoing through the walls of the asylum. Oliver attempted to watch Mother Nature's fury through the window, but the chicken wire across the already murky glass didn't allow him much ability to see. Despite his fascination and appreciation for the bleak conditions, he knew it would've been suicidal to attempt to drive home. Reluctantly, he'd opted instead to stay in a vacant patient room.

The less-than-minimalist surroundings – and the bed that barely qualified as such – brought forth memories he'd tried in vain to repress. Despite the fact that he'd had no space to himself then, this room made him feel as though he were a child again, back in the orphanage.

He scowled at the flattened mattress and thin blanket that couldn't possibly provide much warmth for a Boston autumn. The anger began building within him, his breathing increasing in intensity, wanting so badly to toss the bedding against the wall in protest. His grip on his sensibility was just strong enough to know that was no way for a doctor to behave…but he visualized the crash and hallucinated the sound of his own screams….

The same way he'd done as a child after learning his last lesson from the leather crop.

Still able to remember that final beating as if it were yesterday, he could still feel the sting of the leather on his bare skin. Only seven-years-old, thrust awake by a violent nightmare. It amazed him now how vivid those visions still were, figments made of his twisted imagination that lingered for close to three decades.

He'd dreamt that his mother had come to take him home (wherever "home" was), and for the first time in his little life, he knew true happiness. She had his dark hair and his expressive eyes. _"We're going to have so much fun together, Ollie,"_ she'd told him with a smile, and he was overjoyed to have a nickname all his own, something only Mommy would call him. But as she walked hand-in-hand with him through the orphanage's front door…she became a horrific monster, complete with snow white skin, a mouth full of bloodied fangs, and black holes where her eyes should've been.

He'd woken up screaming, crying out _"Mommy, no!"_ Realizing it had been nothing more than a bad dream, he'd been grateful for once to wake up where he was, away from the horrors of his would-be mother and the frightening world in which she belonged. It was a small relief to see the other boys in their beds around him in that large room, most having been stunned awake by his outburst.

The nun had rushed to his side, and he reached out to her for comfort, momentarily forgetting that such acts weren't allowed there.

And of all the nuns, Sister Mary Cecilia was the one who'd come to him; she was the boys' least favorite nun, the one who seemed to be perpetually unhappy. If only Sister Josephine had come, she would've given him a few kind words; not the consolation he craved, but consolation nonetheless. But for his efforts and need for love, he received a lash from Sister Mary Cecilia, along with a berating for waking up the other children in the middle of the night. He could still hear her chastising tone, _"That's enough out of you, Oliver! Go back to sleep before you cause any more trouble! Back to sleep, all of you!"_

He'd been left too afraid to fall back to sleep, and just as much afraid to stay awake. Again and again he could hear the sound of the lash on his bare bottom and his own cry of pain inside his head. Beaten into silence, the wet trails stained his face with no one to dry them. There was no one to hold him and tell him everything was going to be all right, because things were never going to be all right...

Lost in the trance of this horrible memory, Oliver found himself on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. His tears ran silently just as they had so long ago, still longing for the comfort and love he craved then.

He only ever wanted to know what it was like to be loved. To know what it was like to be held. To know what it was like to be safe in someone's arms. He'd never had that luxury, but somehow he still knew it was missing. The urges he'd had as a child to hug the nuns, never fulfilled. Some nights he'd lie in his bed hugging himself, feeling empty inside.

If only he could go to Lana's room… It was so hard to resist the strongest impulse he'd ever known, so close yet so very far. Everything inside him burnt to climb into her bed and have her soothe his loneliness, embrace him, give his forehead reassuring kisses…

Or perhaps…he could tame another demon. Slaughter the wolf in sheep's clothing.

Sister Jude was not the one who taught him how to fear and introvert, but she could play the part quite nicely. She was acting out that very role for those locked away here…and he could do himself and every patient a favor. Like his victims who became his mother, she could become every nun who ever hurt him for no reason other than the satisfaction of dominating anyone smaller and weaker.

She would never see it coming, passed out from her drunken stupor. The psychiatrist in him was baffled and intrigued by a woman of the cloth becoming intoxicated, but the rest of him only cared that her condition served him well.

How easy it would be to slip into her room…to slit her throat in her sleep… The guards and the staff alike would assume Kit Walker had been in the process of adding a new victim, for some reason interrupted before he could remove her head. Though it would be a shame to go through the effort and not take a memento, a new addition to his mask… The delicious irony and justice, nuns refusing him affection and causing his affliction…only to have a nun's skin upon his for as long as he saw fit.

His breathing had steadied with the fantasy, but he knew there was no logical way to pull off anything of the sort tonight. Another night, had it not been for the storm, he could've perhaps found a way to sneak Sister Jude out and back to his basement. But tonight, locked in these walls from the nor'easter, he would have to settle for his soothing daydream of retribution.

A sigh escaped his throat as he pried himself from the floor. Crossing the short distance, he gave into the reality of spending the night in this place and sat down on the bed. He removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand, wondering why patients without personal possessions even had nightstands. Maybe to mock what they no longer had…

Unable to let himself become too comfortable, he refused to remove his shoes. As soon as morning came, he wanted to get out of this ersatz prison cell without any extra delay. He ruefully lay down and covered himself with the blanket, unable to stop wondering when it had last been washed, or who the last occupant of this room had been.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all the troubling elements closing in on him.

Once he pushed away the negativity and started to believe the lie that he was home in his own bed, a smile spread across his lips. Warmth began to spread through him unlike even his own sheets and comforter at home could provide: he remembered the happy shiver that ran through his body as he touched Lana's hand before the movie, not three hours ago. A quick gesture to announce his presence, but to him it had lasted much longer and had meant so much more. His skin on her skin…just a taste of what was yet to come.

With the sounds of rain filling his ears and the sensation of their shared moment enveloping him, Oliver drifted off to sleep.


End file.
